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good legs collapsed again, perhaps it would be good not to run anymore. The ground was cold and wet underneath him, and the flush of heat from fever and the frantic journey drained into the chill of his surroundings. He shivered with cold and pain and waited patiently . . . even happily, for death to come and take him.

    “If you go to the Northlands in the summer you might avoid snowstorms, but you get mud.” Aralorn, Staff Page, Runner, and Scout for the Sixth Field Hundred, kicked a rock, which arced into the air and landed with an unsatisfactory splut just ahead of her on the mucky trail.
    It wasn’t a real trail. If it hadn’t led from the village directly to the well-used camping spot her unit was currently stopped at, she’d have called it a deer trail and suspected that human feet had never trod it.
    “ I could have told them that,” she said. “But no one asked me.”
    She took another step, and her left boot sank six inches down into a patch that looked just like the bit before it that had held her weight just fine. She pulled her foot out and shook it, trying unsuccessfully to get the thick mud off. When she started walking again, her mud-coated boot weighed twice what her right boot did.
    “I suppose,” she said in resigned tones as she squelched along, “training isn’t supposed to be fun, and sometimes we have to fight in the mud. But there’s mud in warmer places. We could go hunting Uriah in the old Great Swamp. That would be good training and useful , but no one would pay us. Mercenaries can’t possibly be useful without someone paying us. So we’re stuck—literally in the case of our supply wagons—practicing maneuvers in the cold mud.”
    Her sympathetic audience sighed and butted her with his head. She rubbed her horse’s gray cheekbone under the leather straps of his bridle. “I know, Sheen. We could get there in an hour if we hurry—but I see no sense in encouraging stupid behavior.”
    One of the supply wagons was so bogged down in mud that it had broken an axle when they tried to pull it out. Aralorn had been sent out to the nearest village to have a smith repair the damage because the smith they’d brought with them had broken his arm trying to help get the wagon out.
    That there had been a nearby village was something of a surprise out in the Northlands—though they weren’t very deep into them. That village had probably been why the mercenary troops had been sent to practice where they were instead of twenty miles east or west.
    The mended axle was tied lengthwise onto the left side of Sheen’s saddle, with a weighted bag tied to the opposite stirrup to balance the load. It made riding awkward, which was why Aralorn was walking. Part of the reason, anyway.
    “If we get to camp too early, our glorious and inexperienced captain will be ordering the wagon repaired right away. He’ll send us out from a fairly good campsite to march for another few miles until the sun sets—and we’ll be looking for another reasonable place to camp all night.” The captain was a good sort, and would be a fine leader—eventually. But right now he was pretty set on proving his mettle and so lost to common sense. He needed to be managed properly by someone with a little more experience.
    “If I don’t arrive with the axle until it’s dark, then he’ll have to wait to move out until dawn,” she told Sheen. “With daylight, it won’t take long to fix the wagon, and we’ll all get a good night’s sleep. You and I can trot the last half mile or so, just enough to raise a light sweat and claim it was the smith who took so long.”
    Her warhorse jerked his head up abruptly. He snorted, his nostrils fluttering as he sucked air and flattened his ears at whatever his nose was telling him.
    Aralorn thumbed off the thong that kept her sword in its sheath and looked around carefully. It wasn’t just a person—he’d have alerted her to that with a twitch of his ear.
    The scent of blood might have